


Hush (Don't Tell a Soul) [epilogue]

by poisontaster



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Epilogue, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-01
Updated: 2006-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-05 17:06:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5383535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sexy epilogue to Nymeria's AU <a href="http://booterang.livejournal.com/tag/hush%20%28don%27t%20tell%20a%20soul%29">Hush (Don't Tell a Soul)</a>, in which Dean is a firefighter with the hots for his brother.  Familiarity with the story is highly recommended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hush (Don't Tell a Soul) [epilogue]

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hush (Don't Tell a Soul)](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/161900) by Nymeria. 



> I can't express how grateful I am to Nymeria for letting me play in her world. This story has totally captivated me from the moment she told me the idea and the fact that I could contribute in one little way is a wonderful gift. Thank you, honey. Thanks also to Strippedpink & Estrella30 for their wonderful enthusiasm and help with the rough bits.

Dean wakes up slowly and remembers…everything.

Or at least he _thinks_ he does. Because when he comes up all the way from the thickness of sleep, the expanse of bed next to him is empty. He rolls around enough in his sleep to feel unsure if anyone else has been there. For a moment, he feels panic that maybe he really _is_ going insane, just drifting from one delusion to another. His throat shuts up and so do his eyes as he buries his face in his pillow, functionally and fundamentally unable to face that thought. But with his face pressed into the pillow case, he smells a second scent on the linen, something not-him. Something that smells a little like smoke, a little like incense and a lot like Sammy.

Dean's fingers knot in the pillow and he doesn't know if he's more afraid that it _is_ or it _isn't_.

When he turns onto his back and looks around his room more clearly, he can see that his bed's been pulled out and moved, lying in a now-broken circle marked with spent puddles of dark red wax. Which would be cause for alarm if not for the other stuff. The _Sam_ stuff.

Dean groans and his head falls back onto the pillows. "Man, that's never coming out of the carpet," he whines and it’s the sound of his own voice that helps bring home that yes, this is real.

Lying there, staring at the ceiling, he also realizes the faint—but unmistakable—scent of coffee and another aroma that can only be described as breakfasty are not coming through the windows—which are closed—from his upstairs neighbor's. They're a lot more local.

Dean gets out of bed slowly. Some of it is tired and ache—he's amazed at how sore he feels for a man who hasn't done much of anything but sleep for days and days. Some of it is that he doesn't know what the fuck he's going to do if he walks through that door and it's all just a dream after all. There was a time he could have dealt with that, handled it, but that was before his defenses were shredded, before he'd been forced to admit a truth he'd been dancing around for weeks: that, outside of making sure Sam is okay, he doesn't really care a whole lot if he lives or dies.

He stands for a long minute, forehead resting on the jamb, his fingers on the knob. Then he thinks, almost fiercely, _it's real. It has to be,_ and jerks open the door.

And the thing is?

The minute he opens the door, he can hear the steady, busy noises of someone moving around in his small kitchenette. Closer, and he can hear Sam singing to himself under his breath.

_Sam saw me._

_Sam wants me._

They seem like impossible thoughts, either way. Sam in his dream, watching him open himself up literally and figuratively to a spirit. Sam in the real world, in his bed, in his kitchen, apparently making a mess of some pancakes.

"Dude," he blurts, sooner than he meant to speak, "are you humming _Metallica_?"

Sam's head jerks up, startled, and he ends up pouring pancake batter all over his opposite wrist and the stove. "Aw, dammit!" Sam swears and rips his eyes away from Dean to turn on the sink taps and wash off his skin and wet a sponge to blot the spill.

"It calms me down," Sam mutters defensively, a moment later. There's embarrassed red on his ears and the back of his neck and it takes Dean a moment to realize Sam's answering the Metallica comment. Of course, he might have been distracted by the fact that his little brother's not wearing anything but a really old and holey tee-shirt of Dean's and the shortest pair of boxers Dean's ever seen, doing nothing to hide his mile long legs.

"Metallica?" he asks, sort of numbly, wondering when was the last time he got to see this much of Sam's—the _real_ Sam's—naked skin. The minute Sam started sprouting height and his baby fat melted, he'd turned as modest as a Muslim woman in a burkha and though the dream Sam had apparently been exact in every detail, it somehow doesn't really compare to the living, breathing Sam.

"You used to sing it to me, remember?" Sam sounds even more stifled and Dean realizes he's been staring. No. He's been ogling. "When I couldn't sleep or I'd have a bad dream."

"I remember," Dean says brusquely, looking away and doing his best to ignore both Sam's red face and the noticeable bulge of Sam's half-hard cock in those too-short shorts.

"Hey," Sam says, shutting off the stove and shoving the pan off the burner. He pads across the room to Dean while Dean stands frozen and stupid, unable to go or stay and angry with himself for it. Sam reaches for Dean, has his arms halfway around Dean, when Dean plants both hands on Sam's chest and shoves him back far enough that Dean's got some breathing room.

"What the fuck, man? Do I _look_ like I have tits to you?" Dean manages to grit out. He feels breathless and off his game. "Because believe me you, if I did, I'd still be in bed playing with them. What are you doing here, anyway?"

"I…" Sam settles back a little on his heels and when Dean looks at him, he sees a kind of stricken hesitancy on Sam's face. His eyes look huge, the pupils only pinpoints in too much green. "I thought…" He reaches and bracelets Dean's wrist with his fingers and Dean stares at them, trying to put the pieces together. Trying to figure out how this happened. Sam turns half towards the kitchen and gestures lamely. "I was making you breakfast."

"Yeah?" And suddenly Dean feels his rage spilling over, angry with Sam for being here, for being perfect and sweet and sexy and _here_ , like everything Dean's ever wanted and still his little brother. His little brother who has a life and a girl and shouldn't be allowed to throw any or all of it away on his freaksome, loser brother. "And who the fuck told you to do that?"

Sam's expression shutters, turning as neutral as words on a page and he gets very still, fingers dropping away from Dean's wrist. Dean can still feel them there, though. Dean's breathing too hard and too fast—all fury, he assures himself—and it sounds really loud in the sudden quiet.

Finally: "Dean. What are you doing?"

"I'm asking a pretty simple question, I thought." Dean says and he's not going to puke. The smells of coffee and pancakes, butter and heated syrup are not suddenly _too much_. He's not going to puke. "What. Are. You—"

That's about as far as he gets before Sam takes a step forward, slips one hand around to the small of Dean's back, cups the other around the back of his head and plants one on him.

Dean makes a kind of undignified squawk before Sam caresses the ball of his thumb across Dean's eyebrow and slips his tongue through Dean's startled—startled, dammit and not in any way eager—lips. Dean likes to think of himself well versed in the fine art of kissing, even if it has been a while since he's put it to use, but he feels awkward and fumbling as Sam's mouth roams his, angling, pressing, delving into him like he's going to learn all Dean's secrets just like this, as long as it takes.

Then Sam knocks Dean on the back of his head with his knuckles and it's like all Dean's common sense and protests joggle loose because he sighs and lets go, pressing into Sam's body, his arms coming up to slide under Sam's shirt and around his waist. It's been a long time since Dean's just kissed someone, not as the forerunner to sex but just for the pleasure of feeling that mouth, that pressure, those particular lips and tongue fleeting hot over yours.

Dean thinks he'll die before admitting it, but he feels a little shaky when _so much later_ he and Sammy finally pull apart, panting and stoner-eyed. "Jesus, Sammy," he breathes. "What the fuck are we doing?"

Sam blinks at him, his smile waking slow and wide across his face, _forcing_ Dean to smile back. "I'd say it's a pretty first class case of winging it," Sam says, the hand on Dean's back squeezing in rhythmic pulses of callused fingers.

"No." Dean looks down and now he's shaking harder, pent up with all this _stuff_ he's never let himself do, think, feel or say. "I mean…"

"Dean." Sam interrupts and Dean feels a renewed surge of irritation that he's somehow wound up on the whiny, emo side of this conversation like the kid picked last for sports. Dean was _never_ picked last for sports. "I want you. We can make this work if you just… If you just trust me." He pulls Dean's chin up. "I left Jess." Dean's eyes widen and Sam's small smile turns grim.

"You…" Dean starts, but he trails off, not sure how to take that sentence to the end.

"Dean." And he hates it when Sam gets all stern with him, like _Dean's_ the younger brother. "You're not going to change my mind."

Dean has to admit a lot of his irritation sort of flies out the window when Sam kisses him again, hand slipping down to palm Dean's ass and bring him forward against his considerably more than half-hard cock. It's so different. So different than his dreams. Better, for one thing; solid in a way a dream couldn't be, no matter how brilliant a fake it was. Sam's hand goes up again—and Dean whimpers (shut up. never happened)—and then slips under the waistband to spread against bare skin. Sam's forefinger slips between Dean's cheeks to circle lightly and really excellently against Dean's ass.

Dean shudders all over and again that feeling of scared-awkward comes back, unsure if he wants to push back or pull away. Again Sam takes the decision away from him, though, shifting around so he can work his hand around to the front and cup Dean's cock, his thumb skimming the shaft to play in the wetness of the slit. Dean almost comes just from that, twitching and then pulling away, too overwhelmed.

Sam's eyes are bright, excited, like when he first discovered the joys of geometric proofs. "God, Dean…you're so fucking hot. I mean… I don't even know where to start. I just want all of you. Can we do everything? Can we try?"

Dean stiffens, and not in a good way. As much as he'd wanted to go that route with the dream Sam, he'd always held back that last little bit of himself. He's thought about it—Sam's big, thick cock making itself at home deep inside him—but thoughts and actually _doing_ are two so very different things.

Sam doesn't even exactly wait for an answer, closing with Dean again to stroke Dean clumsily through his shorts and scrape his teeth across the skin behind Dean's ear, which apparently is a shortcut button _right back_ to Dean's dick.

Dean's fingers dig into Sam's spine and he reminds himself this isn't a dream or a fake or an illusion. This is Sam, who he's wanted long before he knew how very fucked up it was. "Yeah", he says through lips that feel vaguely numb. "Okay. Sure."  


* * *

  
"So here's the thing," Dean said, twisting his face up away from Sam's kisses once they hit the bed. "I've never actually done this."

"Okay," Sam says. He's sort of muffled by his face up against Dean's neck, but he thinks Dean gets the gist. Stubble against his lips, making them feel swollen and thick is a whole new level of sensation, a little like when he goes down on Jess but again, altogether _not_. "That's fine."

"No," Dean says again. He plants his hands on Sam's shoulders and shoves him back a little bit. Blinking through heavy lids, Sam realizes Dean is _blushing_ , scalded red flushing all the way to his chest. "I mean I really _have never done this before._ "

Sam blinks again, not understanding. Then, when it clicks: "Oh. _Oh._ "

"Oh, God," Dean mutters.

"But…" Sam flounders, the massive unfairness of being expected to think at this particular moment more than he can handle. "What about you and…" He flaps his hand vaguely, "the…other…me?"

Dean's heels dig into the mattress and he shoves himself up from under Sam to sit up. Sam finds himself distracted for a moment by Dean's cock, also flushed red and slick at the tip. He forces himself to meet Dean's eyes. "Last I checked, Sam, I'm still a _guy_ ," Dean says, his tone hovering somewhere between irritated and ashamed, "and the decision to stick something up your ass or not still seemed like a pretty big one!" He slaps a hand over his eyes and groans. "You know what I mean!"

"Hey," Sam kneels up, sidles up the bed to put his hands on Dean's shoulders, thumbs massaging. "Hey, it's no big deal, Dean. I haven't done this either."

"Are we growing ovaries now?" Dean demands, lifting his face from his hand to glare at Sam. "Is that what this is?"

"Dean…" Sam sits back on his heels. He wonders what the dream Sam had done to make Dean so different with him, so much less defensive, more open. He wonders if it's something that will come to them with time or whether he's just going to have to knock Dean's head into a wall until his brother _gets it_. He's voting for the head-knocking, personally.

Sam sighs and grabs Dean's thighs, jerking his brother down the bed towards him. Dean yelps in surprise, but doesn't have much of a chance to do anything else before Sam's on top of him again, biting and licking his mouth, grinding against him. Dean's stiff and resistant for several seconds but then, his hand creeps up onto Sam's waist, pinching hard and his nails digging into the skin. "I _have_ watched porn before," Sam says conversationally, when their mouths come apart for breath. "A lot of it with you, as I recollect." He traces Dean's flank, feeling the muscles hum and shiver under the touch. The curve of Dean's ass is more muscular than he's used to, fascinating in its textures and angles. He bends and takes Dean's lower lip, sucking on it until those narrow hips writhe in his grip. Pulling back again, he says, "We can figure this out."

He tugs Dean up and they shift around until Dean's on his hands and knees. Dean looks so small and Sam wonders how he's going to fit inside, his hand kneading Dean's ass idly.

"C'mon already!" Dean says, impatient, and wiggles his ass. It's such a Dean moment that Sam has to laugh, surging forward to cover Dean's body with his own and turning Dean's mouth to kiss him again. He reaches under Dean to stroke his brother's cock, hard and full and wonders how something so strange, so unprecedented can be so not-weird at all.

He'll probably freak out tomorrow. Or something. But today, now, all he wants is to have this, know this, feel this—Dean, his and willing. Dean, his and wanting. Dean breathes softly and heavily into Sam's mouth, panting in time to the flex of Sam's hand on his cock. When Dean is bucking and making quiet gruff, "yeah, yeah," encouragement against Sam's tongue, he guides his cock between Dean's ass cheeks, rubbing the head in small circles.

"Do it," Dean rasps.

"Dean."

"Christ, before I come, Sam, _please_."

"We need something, man."

"Something." Dean's tone is careful and noncommittal.

Sam blushes. He can tell because it heats his whole face, all the way up into his hair and down into his neck. "For inside you. To slick the way. You got lube or something?"

Dean groans and hides his face in his arm. Sam tries not to notice how this brings Dean's ass up higher, invitingly. Muffled, Dean asks, "What do I look like? A porn shop?"

"Right now? More like a porn star," Sam blurts and Dean lifts his head long enough to flash Sam a grin. "Something else?" he asks hopefully. "Or…shit. We don't have to do this now."

"Lotion?" Dean asks, eyebrows raised. He lifts one arm and points.

Sam jumps up and snags it from the dresser. He's back in a second, squirting cool, mercifully unscented lotion into his palm. "Tomorrow," he tells Dean, who manages to somehow look bored and eager still spread out on his knees, "we get proper lube."

"Yeah," Dean says, "I'll put that right on the list with the big rainbow flag and the 'his and his' towels, okay? Damn, Sam…c'mon and fuck me already!"

"Such a fucking backseat driver," Sam grouses, slicking his cock and lining up behind Dean again. He grabs Dean's hip and guides himself to Dean's opening again. He pulls Dean back at the same time he pushes _in_. The muscle is resistant and tight and in the endless seconds of thrust, Sam feels Dean tensing up.

"Christ," Dean whispers, weak and pained, and then something shifts or opens or maybe Sam just shoves hard enough, because he's sliding in, slow but inexorable.

"Oh," Dean says, his back arching, whole body shaking. "Oh, this isn't going to work…"

"Wait, I can…" Sam struggles not to come as Dean _quivers_ and pulses around him and shifts backwards to pull out. He doesn't want to _hurt_ Dean, for fuck's sake.

Dean's hand darts backwards suddenly to clutch Sam's thigh, short nails digging in. "Don't you fucking _move_ ," he says dangerously and Sam goes perfectly still. "I will…God. Just hold still, okay? Christ, dude shoves what feels like a maypole up your ass and expects no adjustment period. Just hang on a minute. Just…" Dean's head drops on his neck and he makes a whimpering stifled noise, his knees shifting uneasily on the sheets. "Just hang on."

"How…do you even know what a maypole _is_?" Sam asks, trying to talk over the urgent demand of his dick for him to move now and quickly. Inside, Dean's moving too, holding him tight and warm and it's an effort to think about anything but that.

Dean turns his head to look over his shoulder and raises that one eyebrow. "You really need to talk about this _now_?"

Sam risks leaning forward to press his lips against Dean's back, glossed in a thin sheen of sweat. It tickles his lips with salt. The movement drives him a little deeper into Dean and Dean whimpers again, fingers clenching in the sheets, but he doesn't try to pull away. "You're right," Sam murmurs, running his hand along Dean's heaving side and then down, between Dean's legs. "I'm sorry." Dean is only half-hard, sticky with pre-come; Sam runs his thumb down the shaft and feels Dean shiver then wraps his fingers around and starts to stroke.

The result is almost instantaneous; Dean arches and moans and then Sam does too, because Dean arching is Dean's body tightening all around Sam's cock. "Dean," he stammers, shaking from his toes to deep in his chest. "Dean, please let me…"

"Yeah." Dean sounds dazed, his cock thickening and lengthening in Sam's grasp. "Yeah, go." He reaches back for Sam's thigh again. "But not too fast!"

Sam huffs a semi-hysterical laugh against Dean's skin and then he's thrusting, slow and controlled deep into his brother. And now he's kind of whimpering too, because he knew that he _wanted_ Dean and he knew he liked fucking so he was pretty sure he'd like fucking Dean, but he didn't think it would feels so _good_. "God, Dean," he whispers, because he can't even say anything else.

He leans back and straightens again, changing the angle of thrust and he can't stop toying with Dean's ass, fingering around and around where his cock disappears into Dean's body, where it's flushed and stretched and taut and shiny-soft with lube. "I want to do this to you all the time," he says, watching Dean's body flex and move, taking and releasing, spread wide open for him, only for him. "I want us to just stay here, like this, me in you in our bed for days and days. Fuck. Maybe forever."

Dean's shoulders writhe as he pushes back onto Sam. He doesn't say anything, but locked together like this, there's no way that Sam can't feel the way Dean convulses around him, sudden and shocking. Sam reaches for Dean's cock again, full and blood-heavy now, seeming to arc up to his touch.

"Sammy," Dean breathes, thrusting forward into Sam's hand and then back, onto his cock. "Oh God, Sammy…"

"You feel so _good_ ," Sam says helplessly, and his voice breaks. "I want… Dean. I want to try this another way."

"What?" Dean sounds startled, his voice wavering as well. "I think…oh _fuck_ …you're doing all right already, Sammy boy."

"I want to see your face," Sam insists, pulling out slow and easy so Dean feels him as he goes. "I want your mouth."

"God, we haven't even finished the first fuck and you're already a possessive little bitch," Dean grumbles, panting and making little fucking gestures with his hips like he's trying to take Sam back in. Sam tries not to think about that too hard, because if he does, he's going to blow his load all over Dean's back and if he comes before Dean gets off, he'll never fucking hear the end of it.

"Believe it," he says gruffly instead and then he's out of Dean and manhandling his brother onto his side. "Get fucking used to it."

Dean, to his surprise, doesn't say anything, his face ducking into the pillow as he allows Sam to position him. Sam sees the burnt red staining the back of Dean's neck and eclipsing the freckles on his ears again and realizes his brother's embarrassed. Sam's cock _shivers_ and suddenly he can't not be in Dean for any longer.

He splays his hand over Dean's ass, his forefinger rubbing and circling over Dean's opening, feeling it open and clench. For him. Christ. He fits himself in behind Dean—and the minute they can walk again, they have to go looking for a bigger fucking bed—and slides the head of his cock over the skin between Dean's legs, rubbing back and forth.

"Sammy," Dean says, sounding urgent and desperate and a little like he'd like to break Sam's legs if it didn't mean he wouldn't get fucked.

"Tell me it's good," Sam smiles against the heated nape of Dean's neck and then bites, teeth sinking deep and then twisting and oooh, here we have another kink—Dean covered in bites and bruises. _Sam's_ bites and bruises. "C'mon, Dean."

"Christ, Sam, only you are…oh. Like that. Like _that_. Such a geek you want fucking _feedback_ …oh."

Dean's mouth opens wider but his voice fails as Sam slips the head of his cock into him again. Sam nudges Dean's leg up, twists up and over and tilts Dean's head back so that their mouth can meet shallowly, barely more than tongue-play and hot, panting breaths against each other's lips.

"Tell me it's good," Sam says again, rocking his cock's head in and out of the tight, spasming muscle.

"Oh, _fuck_ , Sammy," Dean's voice shatters. He reaches up and behind to cup the back of Sam's head. "It's good, it's _good_ , pl…"

Sam doesn't let Dean get any further before slamming deep—because it was frankly driving him insane too—and they both shout-moan, the bed creaking loudly with them. "Jesus, fuck," Dean chokes. And then, when Sam's thinking maybe he hurt him, maybe he should stop, Dean says, "Harder, Sammy. Please, God, faster. Harder."

Sam pushes his face into the hollow where Dean's neck meets his skull and whispers, "Whatever you want, Dean." He wraps his arm around Dean's chest, pulling Dean onto him, into him.

Sam feels like he could come any second, like he's only hanging on by the barest of inches and with no control whatsoever, lured on by the clutch of Dean's body, by his grunting, frantic moans and quiet refrain of "Sammy, Sammy…", by Dean's frantic buck into his clasping hand. But he doesn't, fucking deep and hard, eyes closed and breathing them in—this delicious mingled smell of _them_ and _their_ sex and _their_ bed.

"I didn't know," Sam says when Dean shouts and shoots, spilling hot all over his fingers. "I didn't know."

He lifts Dean's leg higher, fingernails tracing out the muscles of Dean's flank and finds some spot inside him that makes Dean jerk and buck again. He fucks Dean back to hardness, until Dean can't even say the syllables of Sam's name, only wordless pleading and the desperate pressure of his fingers around Sam's skull.

"God. Dean. _Dean_." The second time Dean comes, weak and almost boneless, Sam follows, his whole body twisting and writhing, his mind blank of everything.

Sam doesn't even remember the comedown, only waking to the sunset, blood-orange colored light streaming and warming across their bodies. Dean is still sleeping, tucked and tangled into the slightly longer curve of Sam's body. Sam's outstretched arm is numb where Dean's head rests on it and his hip is cramping slightly with the need to move. Sam looks at Dean's slightly open mouth, at the shadows only half-hidden by the spiky fan of lashes, at the dusting of freckles that add to Dean's look of perpetual ten-year old boy.

Carefully, Sam shifts to a more comfortable position, crooking his arm to roll Dean closer to him. Dean comes willingly enough, slinging one arm over Sam's chest and his left leg slipping deeper between both of Sam's, hairs tickling. Dean smacks his lips a couple times then tips his head into the crook of Sam's neck, mouthing sleepily against the skin. Sam threads his hands the best he can through Dean's short hair and murmurs, "Go back to sleep, Dean."

"…have'ta get up?" Dean mumbles, barely intelligible.

"No," Sam reassures him. "We got no where else to be. It's cool. Sleep."

Dean mutters something that Sam doesn't catch at all that time and snuggles closer. Sam figures he'll probably tease Dean about it something fierce when they've both had enough rest, but in the meantime, he's content.

More than content; he's happy.


End file.
